A lot of ink has been spilled about how the proliferation of selfies is a reflection of our culture’s increasing self-absorption and a sign that people are only getting more vain. But taking pictures of yourself regularly doesn’t have to be shallow. For example, meet BeckieO, aka Rebecca Brown, a 21-year-old British woman who took a selfie a day for six-and-a-half years in order to document her struggle with trichotillomania, a disorder that compels her to pull out her own hair strand by strand. Starting in 2007 when she was 14, she amassed over 2,100 selfies, which she then assembled into the video above, in order to show the physical and mental progression of her disorder. The pictures are accompanied by different notes indicating various life moments that occurred during the ups and downs of her disorder, like school exams, new boyfriends and a diagnosis for depression. In some of the photos BeckieO is balding or has very short hair; in others, she wears wigs. There are periods where her hair has been able to grow out a little, before the cycle starts all over again. As BeckieO continues to struggle with trichotillomania, her selfie project goes on too, and she also works as an advocate for others who suffer from the disorder. “Every day is a struggle not to revert back to baldness,” she told the BBC. I admire the bravery it takes to share that struggle — which so many don’t understand — with the world. [Refinery 29]
f you’re a “My Life on the D-List” fan like myself, you probably had your first experience with trichotillomania on that series. Tom, Kathy Griffin’s tour manager, compulsively pulled his eyelashes out. Now, a few years later, Olivia Munn has admitted that she, too, goes for the lashes to deal with whatever’s bothering her. She went on to admit that whenever she leaves the house, she has to buy a new set of falsies at the drugstore. She claims her habit is more annoying than it is painful and says that moving around a lot as a kid — Air Force brat and all — gave her anxiety that’s evidently manifested itself in this disorder. Read more…
I have a confession to make: I’m a popper. Not a popper of pills, mind you. I am a popper of pimples. I know that’s gross, and I’m sorry. However, I do think that, at the very least, I owe it to you, dear reader, to hold myself responsible: My name is Sara Barron, and I’m a pimple-popping addict.
My mother was also an addict, and these sorts of things, see, they run in the family. I first noticed I had a problem just as soon as I went through puberty. I’d get delightful bursts of whiteheads on my face and, I swear to god, it was like they were talking to me. Pop me … pop me … you simply HAVE to pop me. The idea that some people get zits, and are capable of just leaving them alone seems utterly bizarre to me. If you’d said, “Sara: Here’s the deal. There’s a ripe and massive whitehead on your face. You can either A) Pop it, but then you have to run the Boston Marathon, or B) Not pop it, but then you won’t have to run the Boston Marathon,” I’d be like, “Get me some bandaids for my nipples, motherf**ker. I will be running that marathon. And I will be popping that zit.” Keep reading »